Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 35.
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A few weeks — and they had nearly expired. In ten days, Henry Guyton would be twenty-one. He had already taken legal advice, and was preparing to put his step-mother and Mr. Larobe on the defensive in regard to his father's estate. On the very day of reaching his majority, a note from his counsel was to signify his will in the case. All the assuranceshe received were of the most emphatic character. He was told that the Orphan's Court would order a division to him of so much of his father's property as, in heirship, he was entitled to receive. Beyond that, he had no concern. If his brother's and sister's portions were alienated or squandered, under the guardianship — it was of little concern to Henry. He was for himself, and for no one else. Already he stood separated from them; and after getting his share of his father's property, he meant that the alienation should be complete. They must not become clogs or hindrances to him on his way upward!
Such were Henry's thoughts and conclusions as he sat alone in his room just ten days before the limitations of minorship were to be removed. There was a knock at his door.
"Come in."
A servant entered and handed the young man a card. It bore the name of Justin Larobe.
"Show him up," said Henry.
A few minutes were passed in wondering suspense, not untouched by anxiety.
"What does he want?" more than once found an almost audible utterance.
Hastening feet were soon heard, and then as the door swung open again, Henry arose quickly, with a half uttered exclamation on his lips, and a look of alarm on his face. Larobe confronted him with a pale, agitated countenance.
"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed the lawyer, speaking in a tone of anguish. "Such a dreadful thing has happened!"
"What?" asked the young man, with a look of terror.
"Your father."
"What of him, Mr. Larobe?"
"Is dead!"
"Dead? Dead!"
Mr. Larobe's hand shook as he drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Henry. It was from Doctor Du Pontz, briefly conveying information that Mr. Guyton had escaped from his room in the night and fallen from a window. In the morning he was found, lying on his face, which was cut and bruised by the fall, dead and stiff — life having been extinct for some hours.
"My poor father!" sobbed Henry, hiding his face with his hands, as some waves of natural emotion swept over his heart. A short space of time the lawyer stood silent, until the first outburst of feeling had subsided. Then he said,
"I have not yet seen your mother; and dread being the medium of such horrible news. How shall I break to her this appalling intelligence? Will you go with me?"
But Henry shook his head.
"Then I must see her alone," said Mr. Larobe, with visibly regained composure of mind. "The body must of course be brought home. I will make such arrangements here as the case requires, and then go on in the evening train and reach Woodville tomorrow. In the mean time, go to your mother, and give her all the consolation in your power. Let this sad event obliterate all unkindness. I will write a few lines to Edwin and Lydia.
The paleness and agitation had already departed from the lawyers face. He was composed and business-like in his manner.
Henry was too much stunned by the intelligence of his father's death to offer any reply, and Mr. Larobe, having discharged his duty in making the announcement, hurried away to the step-mother's residence, where Henry followed in the course of an hour. Mrs. Guyton was overwhelmed by the dreadful intelligence, Henry found her bathed in tears, and overflowing with griefs most eloquent language. She blamed herself for having ever consented to the removal of her husband to an Asylum.
"I could have guarded him with sleepless watchfulness," she said, and so prevented this terrible calamity."
But, the son was not deceived. In acting a part, Mrs. Guyton, like most actors, gave the lie to nature. Henry looked on in silence, contempt, and suspicion.
After a brief interview with his step-mother, who soon regained her usual calm exterior, Henry retired from the house and went to the office of his lawyer in order to state the fact of his father's death. Sorrow made no part of the concern that now weighed upon his mind.
"Is there a will?" was the lawyer's first inquiry.
Henry could not answer the question.
"All depends on that. If there is a will, legally executed, its provisions bind the estate; if there is no will, the law of inheritance comes in to divide the property. We must wait and see. Your father was too careful and systematic a man to neglect so important a thing as his will."
Anxious and impatient for the time when all suspense would be removed, Henry passed the next few days in a state of restless uncertainty. Mr. Larobe returned, in due course, with the body, preserved in ice; but the face was so blackened and disfigured that not a feature was recognizable. By previous arrangement, the funeral took place on the day following. Of the severed and alienated house-hold, all were present but John, who was still at sea. Lydia was scarcely recognized by Henry or her step-mother. No one spoke to, or noticed her husband, after the first cold introduction. Although Lydia arrived on the day previous to that designated for the funeral, she was not invited to remain, and after sitting for an hour or two in the heart-chilling atmosphere of her old home, retired with her husband.
There were but few in attendance on the next day; and of sincere mourners, perhaps not one. No hearts — not even those of Mr. Guyton's children — garnered sweet memoriesof the departed, or wept for a loss felt to be irreparable. The earth, as it fell heavily on that coffin lid, was not heaped on one whose spirit had linked itself with human loves and human sympathies; and no broken bonds or torn tendrils bled or quivered in anguish with the pain of separation. Tearless eyes had looked upon the coffin as it descended from view, and tearless eyes turned from the spot where it disappeared — a spot unconsecrated by sorrow, and never to be visited with any loving interest.
Is the life worth living, that closes in such a death and burial? And the beyond? Thought comes back, shuddering, from the beyond, and we ask, "What is the man's state now?"
One act more.
Word was passed, quietly, to Henry and Lydia, that, immediately after the funeral ceremonies, their father's will, found among his papers, would be read. This was the first advice received by them concerning the existence of a will. They, therefore, returned to the house, and met the assembled family. Mr. Larobe was in attendance, sitting at a table in one of the parlors, with the will lying before him. Formally he broke the seal, in presence of all, and in the deathlike stillness that followed, read the document in a calm, distinct voice.
After the usual brief preliminary matter, the children of the testator were named in order, with the sum each was to receive from the estate. Henry's share was twenty thousand dollars. John's ten thousand; but this was in trust; he to receive only the annually accruing interest. At his death, the principal would pass to the residuary legatee. Lydia was next mentioned. Her portion was only one thousand dollars! Edwin and Francis were to receive ten thousand each, and a like sum was willed to each of Mr. Guyton's three children by his second wife, Jane. All the residue of the estate, real and personal, was bequeathed to his "loving wife, Jane," who, jointly with Justin Larobe, were constituted guardians to the children not yet of legal age. Larobe was named as executor to the estate.
No sentence of approval or blame appeared anywhere in the carefully worded, and strictly legal document, nor were any reasons for a bequest given. The only apparent sign ofhuman feeling, was in the words "my loving wife, Jane."
Several minutes passed, after the lawyer had finished, before the succeeding silence was broken. The first movement was on the part of Lydia and her husband, who arose, and retired from the house, without the utterance of a word. Henry next withdrew, and in silence, also departing from the house. Edwin sat for a little while stunned to bewilderment by the announcement of his small share in an estate which he had complacently estimated at the value of several hundreds of thousands of dollars, and then retired also, going up to his room, for he yet claimed some right to a place in his father's house.
Henry's steps were directed to the office of his counsel and he went there with hurrying feet.
"There is a will!" he said, with strong excitement in his manner on entering.
"Has it been read?"
"Yes."
"What are the provisions?"
"Oh, horrible! Scandalous! That woman gets nearly the whole of my father's large property. I shall contest the will."
"What is the date?"
"I didn't observe," said Henry.
"That is important. If executed since the aberration of mind which preceded his death, it can be set aside. As soon as we have the probate, I will look to the date. But, what is your share under this will?"
"Twenty thousand dollars." Henry tossed his head in contempt of the paltry sum.
"And what of the other children?"
"Only ten thousand each, except in the case of my sister Lydia, who threw herself away in a beggarly marriage. She is cut off with a single thousand."
"How much do these sums amount to in the aggregate?" inquired the lawyer.
"Six, at ten thousand each, make sixty thousand dollars. My portion of twenty thousand, and Lydia's portion of one thousand, added, would make the sum of eighty-one thousand dollars."
"How large is the estate?"
"Roughly estimated, say two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
"Of which your mother comes in for nearly one hundred and twenty thousand."
"Yes — she a mere interloper — a woman who only married my father for his money — she to get the lion's share! My blood boils in my veins!"
"Let us see how the case stands, should this will be defective," said the lawyer. "Your mother's one-third of the whole estate, valued, we will assume, at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, would be something over eighty-three thousand. There would remain, say one hundred and sixty-six thousand dollars, to be divided among — how many children?"
"Eight," replied Henry.
"Eight into one hundred and sixty-six, a little over twenty times. I don't see that you would be any better off, Henry — you, individually, I mean."
Henry's countenance fell.
"As the will now stands, you are to receive all the law would give, had your father died intestate. The hard features of the case lie with your brothers and sisters."
"I see — I see." Henry's face had grown deadly pale. Only twenty thousand dollars as his share in an estate, of which already greedy eyes had appropriated more than one half. Just how this appropriation was to be made, had not been settled in the young man's mind; but, he had cherished a vague impression, that, after attaining his majority, the estate would come under his control, and be left almost entirely to his management. In that event, no delicate scruples as to others' rights, when set against his strong love of money, would hinder the execution of his will. Justice, humanity, integrity, except as safe virtues, were not involved in his rules of action.
"The rights of your brothers and sisters are to be considered," the lawyer said. "As the will now stands, they will only receive sixty-one thousand dollars. If broken, one hundred and forty thousand will be divided between them."
"But I will get no more!" said Henry, sternly.
"You will get no more," replied the lawyer.
"Then I shall not move a finger in the case. I will not stand the brunt, and expense, and delay of a law-suit, with no prospect of a dollar's advantage! Henry Guyton is not so great a fool! Let them fight, who have something to gain. If twenty thousand is all I am to receive, I will take the paltry sum and make the best of it."
And saying this, Henry withdrew. He was satisfied, that the will which his father had made did not express his true purpose — that it had been extorted from him in some moment of weakness, or derangement; and that, if an attempt were made to resist its provisions, the court would pronounce it null and void. But, why should he involve himself in the cost, vexations, and delays of a law-suit, which, if decided in his favor, would leave him no better off? Henry was shrewdly selfish enough to comprehend the folly of such a course, as affecting his own position, and no motive of good will, or care for his brothers and sisters, could induce him to enter a contest designed alone for their benefit. The sentiment, "every one for himself," expressed accurately his state of feeling. He comprehended no interests but his own.
The more carefully and soberly Henry considered the stipulations of his father's will, the clearer did it become manifest, that his wisest course was to accept its provisions as affecting himself. There were too many to share in the results of a law-suit, as against the instrument, if carried to a successful outcome. And besides, if he contested the will, he must forego its benefits, and so be kept from any share in the estate until a final decision by the last court of appeal to which the case could be taken.
In considering the case of John and Lydia, Henry had no fault to find with his father's will. Ten thousand dollars in trust for John, he considered a fair appropriation to one of his spendthrift habits. The proviso in trust, so that only the interest could be used, met his entire approval. As for Lydia, one thousand or one hundred was all the same to him. They had parted company in life; their roads had taken a sharp divergence, and could never run side by side again. Towards Edwin and Francis, Henry was coldly indifferent. He could part company with them also, and not suffer a pang. As for his half brothers and sister, they not only shared the dislike with which he had always regarded his step-mother — but were held to be interlopers — intruders, who had come in to wrong, and who had wronged by their presence the first heirs of his father. If we put the case stronger, and say that he hated them, our words would more accurately express the truth.
So, without a movement looking towards investigation, although he entertained the strongest suspicions in regard to the means by which this will was obtained, Henry, on reaching his twenty-first year, accepted his share of the estate, which was promptly paid by the executor, and then, resolutely, in heart, turned himself away from all kith and kin, resolved to be alone in the world, and all for himself.
Three months afterwards, John returned from his sea voyage. He was changed, and for the worse. From being sensual and depraved — he had become cruel and desperatealso. During a portion of the voyage homeward, the captain had been obliged to put him in irons for mutinous conduct. He exhibited no natural emotions on hearing of his father's death; but asked, almost immediately, in regard to the will. His first interview with Mr. Larobe, during which a copy of the will was placed in his hands, took on a stormy character. He denounced the instrument as a fraud, and swore that he would contest it through every court in the land.
From the lawyer's office he went in search of Henry and soon, by his violent language and unjust insinuations, stirred his brother's cooler blood with passion. Sharp words passed and anger grew hot. Both were mad and blind. In his ungovernable rage, John struck a blow that scarcely touched his brother before he was himself lying stunned upon the floor. As he arose, he drew a dagger; but Henry, who was cooler and stronger, caught his arm and wrenched the instrument of death from his hand. At the same time, he pulled the bell-rope, saying as he did so —
"Take my advice, and go; for, just so sure as you remain until the servant comes, I will send for an officer and have you arrested!"
John stood glaring upon him with wicked, murderous eyes, evidently under the impulse to spring like a wild beast at his throat.
"Go!" Henry waved his hand. "From this hour you stand to me as a stranger."
"And an enemy!" John flung the words madly through his lips.
"Suit yourself in that; but go! I hear the servant's feet."
John stood hesitating for a moment, and then, with a long, wicked, devouring look at his brother, moved backwards to the door, and opening it passed out.
The servant came in immediately afterwards.
"Did you see the man who left here just now?" asked Henry.
"Yes sir;" replied the servant.
"Will you know him?"
"Yes sir."
"Very well. Now remember, that if he calls again he is not to come to my room on any pretense. You understand me?"
"I do, sir."
"Say always that I am not in; and be sure to let me know when he calls."
"Yes sir."
"Should he attempt to force himself up here, restrain him, and if necessary hand him over to a policeman."
All of which the servant promised to do. But John did not call a second time. He had nothing to gain by a contest with Henry, and so stood far away from him, with hate instead of brotherly kindness in his heart. His conduct towards his step-mother was of a character that soon gave her warrant to forbid him coming to the house, and she did not hesitate to accept the outcome. And so, before he had reached his twentieth year, the second son of Adam Guyton, hopelessly enslaved to appetite and passion, and desperate in feeling, stood as completely alone in the world as if no kindred blood were in other veins.
To the husband of Lydia on her authority, had been paid the small legacy offered in her father's will. Her proud spirit would have rejected this base award; but the man who called himself her husband was of a different mold. He had married her for money, and now took whatever he could get; but took it in a spirit of angry disappointment.
The three older children effectually out of her way, and Edwin and Francis disposed of under the will, so far as a share of their father's property was concerned, Mrs. Guyton, as residuary legatee to her husband's handsome estate, sat down in her calm dignity, feeling that the long looked for time had come at last, when wealth and position were hers in actual right, and there was none to interpose word or act in contravention.
Did no pity come into her heart? Did not the image of poor Lydia sometimes intrude itself and plead for a larger share in her father's estate? Mrs. Guyton had no weaknesses. She was a woman of will and purpose; but not much idealism. If imagination did now and then conjure up what are called unreal things, they had no power to disturb the icy repose of her spirit. A fit counterpart was she for Adam Guyton; but, in meeting, she had proved the stronger spirit, and, by a transfusion of power, absorbed his freedom to a degree that made him almost passive in her hands. So, she accomplished her will, and in that accomplishment, set at naught all the cherished ends of a man, who felt that when he built his house on the solid foundations of gold, it was storm-proof and time-proof.
Oh, man! whoever you are — wherever you are — oh, man, in whose mind the thought of gold as the highest good shines ever as a star of brightest promise, take into your heart, and ponder it well — the life history we have given. Moral and mental causes work to corresponding effects, just as unerringly as manifest causes. Selfish ends defeat themselves by a law of compensation as inevitable as fate, for the germs of disaster are hidden in them at birth. In the degree that a man says in his heart, "Nothing but money!" — just in that degree does he build on a false foundation; just in that degree does he put his gold in unsafe caskets.
Avarice is blind in all directions but one, and there it sets watch and ward; but, while guarding approaches from this side with sleepless fidelity, enemies of whose existence no perception gives warning to the inner sense, draw nearer and nearer, to work a final ruin, and they strike not until the thrust is surely fatal.
If a man stood simply alone, turning himself by a kind of spiritual alchemy into gold; or, changing from a vitalized human spirit, into a dead form of avarice — the curse of a predominant evil love would rest alone with himself. When he went down in the sea of life — there would be few signs of shipwreck on wave or shore. But, not standing alone, and yet being false to nearly every social and home duty — how fearfully disastrous must the end be!
Not in the devotion of our lives to any great leading purpose, do we secure final success and happiness; but in the devotion of our lives to an end that looks to other's good. Few, if any, so devote themselves, and few, if any, are successful and happy.
Still, the truth remains. Avarice and ambition are the most powerfully active of all selfish impulses, and drive some men onward in the world at almost the tempest's speed; but, avarice and ambition always leave ruin behind them — moral and spiritual ruin, over which the good mourn in unavailing sorrow.
THE END.
(You may want to read the exciting SEQUEL to this story, "What Came Afterwards".)
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